


You always looked so harmless walking

by darkersky



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkersky/pseuds/darkersky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Emma Swan meets Regina Mills and Regina Mills meets Emma Swan they both realize you should be careful with the people you meet on the internet.</p>
<p>Written for Day 1 (Blind Date AU) of Swan Queen Week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You always looked so harmless walking

**Author's Note:**

> I shall be posting my SQ Week AU stories here as well just for fun and safekeeping, I guess.
> 
> This first one was written for Day 1 / Blind Date AU:  
> ↳ _Emma and Regina get set up on a blind date._
> 
> I deviated from the prompt a little, but oh well.

 

**You always looked so harmless walking**

_don’t say I’m so evil_   
  
_some people like wine_   
_I like the taste, taste of your cyanide_

 

*

 

The first time Emma Swan lays eyes on Regina Mills is the moment right after she has just realized her red nail polish is a little chipped because she did her nails in a hurry. This imperfection suddenly feels immense to her, because, let’s face it, there is nothing about Regina Mills that is less than perfect.

There are people who look flawless in photos, especially in carefully edited selfies taken from their most flattering angles. It’s the expectation, really. Thou shalt always make thyself conventionally prettier for the internet for the internet cannot handle thy true beauty.

That’s  _most people_  and then there is Regina Mills.

And, actually, this is the first time Emma Swan really sees Regina Mills, because there was always something, some explanation as to why providing a decent photo was an impossible hurdle, so by any accounts this could be described as a blind date, but now that she  _does_ see her…

Describing Regina Mills in terms of her looks is mostly entirely futile because words are bound to fail and, to share something that’s not exactly a secret with you, Emma Swan has never considered herself one for words. She realized that some time around the fourth foster family where the Biological Son who was around her age repeatedly called her a fucking retard because she always stumbled on the more difficult words when made to read out loud in class. Someone, some teacher fresh from college and thus not entirely jaded, probably thought about looking into it as a possible case of mild dyslexia somewhere along the way, but nothing came of that. But it might also be just a case of having a spotty educational history. That’s what moving around a lot does to you. Who knows, maybe in an alternative universe Emma Swan would be an English teacher, but in this one, well, her job does not exactly require exquisite verbal virtuosity and that’s something she has no complaints about.

It’s therefore not completely surprising that words fail her even though appearing inconspicuous is of utmost essence for the successful execution of this particular mission she has tonight. Besides, she has done this a million times so she is not entirely sure why her mouth goes so dry all of a sudden. “Wow, you look…” Well. The faint ache somewhere in her belly. The need to find a mirror and make sure her red dress still looks as flawless as it did when she checked her appearance for the third time before exiting her apartment (and failed to notice the chipped nail polish – oh, Emma Swan, you careless fool). “It’s just… You never know with the internet, you know?”

"I don’t actually." Regina Mills smirks. It’s not a playful smirk, no – it’s deliberate and slow and predatory.

"You… don’t?"

"I don’t…  _date_  people from the internet.” The smirk turns into a smile that’s too dashing to be completely genuine and too genuine to be, well, completely false.

And you know what? This, this whole shtick is something Emma Swan  _can_ do. She can do it expertly. She can smile and charm and seduce. So Emma Swan smiles and she knows it’s a charming smile, and she lowers her voice just a tad. “Ah. So I’m special?”

"It would appear so. Though, as you just said, you never know with the internet." One perfect, pointed eyebrow rises, and Regina Mills looks both challenging and ready to rip Emma Swan’s dress off of her body. With her teeth. Probably with her teeth.

Okay. This woman is pure sex appeal on high heels. This is how we shall describe her flawless beauty for anything else would be, yes, a futile waste of appreciative adjectives.

But Emma Swan has a job to do so there’s no time for any of this. The faster she gets this over with the better because that way there is less room for screwing up (and, despite appearing so confident, there will always be a part of Emma Swan that’s constantly asking,  _Was that okay? Am I_ _messing up here?_ ), but, anyhow, she gestures towards the entrance to the restaurant. “Shall we?”

"Sure," Regina Mills says. She takes Emma Swan’s extended arm, and in Emma Swan’s mind the gesture registers as something peculiar. It’s entirely fluid, natural and easy. It’s almost as if, and she knows this is not  _Love Actually_ , but what can you do, the weight of Regina Mills’s hand on her forearm belongs there.

But there’s one thing that Emma Swan knows that we haven’t discussed yet that mostly explains why she is not jumping this woman’s bones yet even though that would seem like something that should happen, wouldn’t it? Hot people should have hot sex with other hot people. And let’s be honest here, Emma Swan, as reluctant as she might be to admit it, considering the circumstances, certainly wouldn’t mind having hot sex with Regina Mills. She wouldn’t mind seeing those perfect, red lips open just a little, releasing a gasp of pleasure. She wouldn’t mind those nails, perfectly manicured (damn chipped nail polish, damn), digging into her skin. Damn, she wouldn’t mind if those nails left marks so deep that there was blood. Oh god, she wouldn’t mind being reduced into a blubbering mess of a sobbing human being, feelings tangled into a tight, concentrated  _oh_ _my_ _god yes please_  in her abdomen and then being wrung like a string, flung into some outer space outside her body, into blissful nothingness where nothing would exist except for Regina Mills and her perfect, perfect mouth, red lips curling around quiet, desperate moans.

These thoughts pass through Emma Swan’s mind in the span of fractions of seconds and they leave her palms just a little sweaty and her heartbeat just a little erratic.

But it’s not just that Regina Mills is fucking gorgeous. It’s also the fact that Regina Mills is a murderer. An actual goddamn motherfucking murderer. Someone who has killed another human being. The victim, a man in his early 60s, had been administered so much poison that it would have been enough to kill three men.

Regina Mills has killed. The person whose existence she ended (and you could perhaps argue it wasn’t entirely untimely, all factors regarding age, health, diet and exercise routine considered) was her first husband and she’s been able to elude justice for a long time. So long in fact that she has had time to build a new life for herself somewhere. They say this new life has been in some somnolent town in Maine, but no one knows for certain. Regina Mills has a new identity, a new life, new everything. She’s intelligent, creative, and for a moment it seemed as if she might be able to escape.

But that’s about to change. Soon. Because Emma Swan’s got this. She’s got this.

Agent Swan (technically on a leave of absence due to a particularly unfortunate instance of premature trigger-pulling, but hell if they won’t take her back after this) of the Federal Bureau of Investigation has got this.

*

It’s a Friday night so the restaurant is busy.

"Well, this hasn’t been as awkward as I feared," Emma Swan says and she’s surprised to discover that in her heart of hearts it is not a lie. Setups like this, with minor variations, are always bound to be a little awkward simply because the night always ends rather abruptly with her arresting the person she’s pretending to be having a good time with.

Except this time there is not that much pretending required. As far as wanted criminals go, Regina Mills is good company. She’s obviously smart and surprisingly funny with just enough sharp edges for things to remain deliciously unpredictable. And Emma Swan enjoys making Regina Mills laugh. And she  _really_ enjoys the way Regina Mills’ fingertips ghost over her hand when they reach for the bread basket simultaneously and the smile she gets in response to her own coy smile. It should feel like playing with the prey but it doesn’t. It’s just… nice.

"No, it hasn’t," Regina Mills says and smiles that dashing smile again.

"So tell me something about yourself," Emma Swan finds herself saying even though it’s doubtful Regina Mills is going to go into full confession mode and spill the beans about the murder, seeing that that’s the only thing about Regina Mills Emma Swan should be concentrating on. But perhaps, if we are going to keep being entirely honest, what she’s hoping to achieve with this line of questioning is not of purely professional interest to her.

"Well, my life is really rather boring," Regina Mills says.

"I seriously doubt that," Emma Swan says. She says it with a little too much playfulness considering the fact that for the woman she’s on a date with  _boring_ apparently consists of hiding some really rather nasty things.

"Well, I work a lot. Between that and raising my son there’s really not much else going on," Regina Mills says.

"You have a son?" This is brand new information to Emma Swan. She’s cursing herself internally because these are the kinds of things you are supposed to know about the fugitives you are pursuing. Sometimes she thinks there might be some truth to the stereotype perpetuated by popular fiction of the FBI mostly consisting of a bunch of idiots.

"Yes. He’s ten. A real sweetheart." Regina Mills’s smile when she mentions her son is a different kind of dashing smile. It’s mostly just something that could be best described as pure happiness and love, were you insistent on putting labels on feelings, and seeing that smile tugs on a very specific heartstring in Emma Swan. Not only has no one ever probably smiled like that when talking about her, but she has also never quite gotten over the guilt over giving up the child she gave birth to when she was eighteen. She knows it was the right thing to do at the time, but the abyss is there. It’s in those quiet mornings when she sometimes allows herself to imagine how it would feel if there was a kid sitting at the kitchen table and she was making pancakes for him.

"Is he from a previous marriage?" Emma Swan asks.

"No, I adopted him," Regina Mills says.

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Wow, that’s…" It’s amazing what the background checks miss, isn’t it? Adoption agencies should probably pay more attention to their clients’ potential homicidal tendencies. "That must have required a lot of dedication."

"It hasn’t been easy. But my son is everything to me so it was worth it." The smile this time is almost sad.

"So you have never been married?" Emma Swan asks even though she knows this is probably not only stupid but also a potentially dangerous question. She’s playing with fire on so many levels her head is starting to spin a little and she knows she really shouldn’t be taking tiny sips of wine while having this conversation because there’s no way that’s making things any better.

Two heartbeats too many pass before Regina Mills says, without a trace of shakiness in her voice, “I was.”

"Not a happy story, is it?"

"Certainly not first date material," Regina Mills says, and, well, she’s probably right. Murder is generally considered something you shouldn’t confess to your partner until way into the third decade of marriage. We are not kidding here – there have been actual cases that Emma Swan has been involved in where something like that has happened.

"Right. I have my own share of those stories, too," Emma Swan says. The stories about her own personal history are not exactly like that (no one’s died so far, for instance), but if this were a real first date, she wouldn’t be comfortable revealing all the ways in which she has failed to maintain healthy relationships with various people. She also wouldn’t talk about all the ways she’s been abandoned in her life. In fact, that’s something she has barely thought about in years except lately, now that she’s not really working and has too much time alone with her own thoughts. These days, sometimes, but only sometimes, she finds herself wondering if she could ever again feel like she belongs somewhere. Is  _belonging_ just one of those things people say without it really meaning anything real? Is it like  _home_ , an abstract thing that most people associate all kinds of pleasant things with but that doesn’t really exist in the physical sense – no, it’s just a state of mind. And no state of mind is permanent. Should you even be longing to belong if it can never last? These are the things Emma Swan thinks about even though those are not the exact words she would ever use to describe her musings.

"Miss Swan?"

"Sorry, I was…" Emma Swan has gotten lost in thought for a moment there and forgotten to listen to whatever it was Regina Mills said to her and she can’t believe it. She can’t afford getting lost in thought. She can’t afford being relaxed enough to do that. "Sorry. What was it you were saying?"

"What do you do, Miss Swan?"

"Emma," Emma Swan says, "We are on a date. It would be weird if you kept calling me Miss Swan." It’s mostly a strategy for buying more time while coming up with a plausible answer. Mostly.

"Very well,  _Emma._ " There is another smile. "What do you do?"

"I… I’m between jobs actually." It’s not completely fabricated. And really, there have been days when Emma Swan has seriously reconsidered her chosen career path. Maybe this leave of absence is ultimately for the best.

"I see," Regina Mills says.

"My previous job mostly consisted of doing boring office stuff in a cubicle," Emma Swan says. And it’s true. Going through government databases and writing field reports can be extremely boring.

"You don’t seem like someone who’d be content gathering dust in an office," Regina Mills says.

"How do you figure?"

Regina Mills doesn’t say anything. She just winks.

And Emma Swan almost gets lost in thought again, only these thoughts are very, very different and very, very graphically physical, so, as a desperate last straw that could help her keep her head above the surface of whatever it is she’s sinking into, she clears her throat and asks, “So how’s Maine this time of year?”

Regina Mills blinks. Then she says, “Maine in January is cold.”

"Got any snow?"

"Some, yes."

"That must be nice. I like snow."

"Well, personally, I’m not too fond of it." Regina Mills looks around. Then she folds her napkin, places it on the table, next to her unfinished plate of roast quail. She smiles. "Now, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment."

"Sure," Emma Swan says.

She figures it’s not like anything could happen. She can see the doors to the restrooms from where she’s sitting.

*

Clearly the wine was a bad idea, because it takes Emma Swan almost three minutes to realize her horrible mistake. And then the only thing she can think is  _f_ _ucking fuck_. Big motherfucking fucking fuck.

See, Regina Mills never mentioned anything about living in Maine. Never.

*

The street is full of traffic, and for a moment it looks as if Emma Swan’s evening, and possibly her entire  _life_ , at least in the professional sense, has been utterly and completely ruined.

The Mercedes is still there, obviously, thanks to the rudely orange wheel clamp. Regina Mills, however, is nowhere to be seen until there is a honking noise and the screeching of tires on wet asphalt and when Emma Swan glances in the direction of the noise, she sees her.

Regina Mills is crossing the street, running among cars.

For a second Emma Swan wonders if Regina Mills  _wants_ to get killed, but then she remembers worrying about Regina Mills’s life is not the point. The point is catching her and bringing her to justice and making her pay for the atrocious crime she has committed.

There are those scenes in action movies (not to mention  _Ice Age_ ) where the hero runs in slow motion and the background music swells until it reaches an explosive climax. Everything intensifies until the hero has saved the leading lady from mortal peril. Considering the nature of this story so far, something like that should probably happen.

But no, that’s not what happens here. Nothing like that happens. Emma Swan does run towards Regina Mills, but by that point the pedestrian light has changed and crossing the street is completely safe. She runs and she hasn’t actually spent most of her time sitting behind a desk. No, in fact, she’s in excellent shape, so it requires almost no effort to catch Regina Mills.

"Stop," Emma Swan hisses. "I have a gun."

Regina Mills stops. She turns, hands where Emma Swan can see them. And she looks at Emma Swan, and there’s nothing but intense fear in her eyes.

And just like that, it’s all over.

Right?

"It’s over, isn’t it?" Regina Mills asks.

Emma Swan sighs. “I’m afraid so.”

"So who are you with? The feds?"

"Oh, right, yeah. Agent Swan. The FBI."

"Well, isn’t that just unfortunate," Regina Mills says.

"It is, isn’t it?" Emma Swan is pretty sure that a part of her actually means it, as little sense as it makes.

Regina Mills looks like she’s shivering. It wouldn’t be so strange considering it’s January and she’s wearing a sleeveless, gray dress. But it could also be due to something else. Something like… “What’s going to happen to Henry?”

"Henry?"

"My son."

Emma Swan sighs. “Does he have any family? Other than you?”

"No. It’s just the two of us."

The system. That’s what’s going to happen to him. Emma Swan sighs again. “Nothing bad is going to happen to him.”

"Are you sure?"

And there’s no way Emma Swan can answer that question. No way. So she doesn’t.

"That’s what I thought," Regina Mills says. She looks defeated. Tired.

"You should have thought about that  _before_  killing someone,” Emma Swan says.

At that, Regina Mills looks furious. She glares at Emma Swan, closes the small distance between them, and really, there’s no reason why Emma Swan still doesn’t have her gun out, but not a lot of this makes any sense anyway, so let’s just roll with it, and then Regina Mills whispers, violently, “You know nothing about that. He was not a good man and I did not want to marry him.”

"Right. Because you wouldn’t kill a perfectly good man, would you?"

"Of course not."

"You do realize most people go through life without killing anyone at all?"

"It’s strange, isn’t it?"

And the thing is, it kinda  _is_ strange. It is extremely strange when you really think about it. But thinking is not something Emma Swan should be doing right now so she simply says, “I’m sorry.”

Regina Mills sighs.

Something about that sigh is so desperate, so familiar, and so, so utterly heartbreaking that Emma Swan says, “I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to your kid, okay?”

A singular tear makes its way down Regina Mills’s cheek. It’s a tear Emma Swan brushes off with her right thumb right before taking out the handcuffs and saying, “You are under arrest.”

Maybe in an alternative universe Emma Swan would let Regina Mills go. Maybe she would say,  _"Just go, okay? You tricked me and you escaped."_ But that would be just crazy, wouldn’t it?


End file.
